


and my eyes fall on you

by rubycrowned



Series: And Through Your Eyes (I See The One I Wish I Was) [6]
Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Complete, Feels, M/M, lourry, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and - sometimes - it all ends the way it's meant to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and my eyes fall on you

**Author's Note:**

> help! it's all over.
> 
> this is the final part of the series and it's time for a big wrap up.
> 
> thanks madi, cat and sharon for reading parts of this over at different times <33
> 
> ENJOY

“Louis?”

The door is opened, light spilling out onto Louis. And it’s Harry who is stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob still, eyes widening in shock for the briefest moment before becoming hard and flat - _lifeless_ \- staring resolutely into Louis’, muscle in his jaw twitching as though it takes conscious effort to maintain the link. Louis thinks of soft green, of liquid green, of depth and warmth and a cheery spark. Emotion. Anything but what is staring back at him now.

“Harry.”

It’s quiet, almost breathless, and Louis hasn’t mentioned his name aloud in two months but it sounds an awful lot like _home_ and maybe that’s why; why he fought this for so long, and why a part of him has always known that, eventually, he’d always end up back here at Harry's door.

“I was never ashamed of you," is what he says.

“Why are you here, Louis?”

Harry's voice is hoarse, as though his vocal cords are knotted and as disused to uttering Louis' name as Louis is his.

“I wasn’t even ashamed of myself, not really. Although I think I have been ever since.”

"Why. Are. You here. Louis." Harry's teeth are gritted, knuckles white on the door handle, and Louis thinks he looks like he's barely holding himself together. The fact that it's Louis' fault, that he's the one responsible for the distrust in Harry's eyes, makes Louis only more determined that he do this; if only so that Louis can have the door shut on him with some closure this time and not just the snip of the lock catching, an engine turning over.

"I need to explain."

Harry doesn't look impressed, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

"Didn't think there was much to have explained, really."

"Please, Harry," and Louis doesn't _do_ desperate, so he's not sure what the note that hits his voice in that moment is, but, "please don't shut me out, Haz. I've been a right tit, I know, but I just- please."

He'd flinched at the nickname, which slipped out inadvertently, but Harry doesn't say anything. He just turns away from the corridor - from Louis-  not looking behind him to see if Louis' follows, but he's left the door open, and Louis can only hope that it's an invitation, reluctant though it may be.

Harry pauses outside his bedroom, flicking his head slightly towards the sound of the telly and studio laughter coming from the lounge, but seems to shake his head slightly, pushing through the door of his room. He sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread in a v, faux casual given away by the way his arms are still taut, crossed in front of him.

"Why today?"

And Louis isn't sure what to say.

***

Louis has felt trapped for months, one way or another.

Trapped by emotions which had him tied up, bound to another human being in a way which Louis wasn't sure he wanted. Which felt too much, too real, too good to be true. Because things like that weren't meant for Louis. And it might be wrapped up with pretty ribbon and a bow tucked amongst unruly curls, a glowing smile and a most curious belief in _Louis,_ of all things.

But Louis had always known, deep down, that in the end he'd find that underneath it all was nothing but an empty box, hollow and ringing with a taunting promise that had been swept away with the first breeze.

Trapped in green eyes which followed him all the way to Doncaster, which had slowly faded from joy to confusion, from confusion to disappointment, to finally harden, releasing Louis only to have him floundering for purchase in a place that he'd always considered safe; where he'd been trying so hard to rationalise this- this infatuation.

Trapped, sinking in a bog of guilt which clouded every action as Louis came to realise just how thoroughly Harry had managed to infiltrate everything he did; everything which Louis had associated with himself had somehow become linked to _them_. Which Louis fucked up. And it's not as if he had meant for it to happen, but it's not as if he'd tried to prevent it all that thoroughly either. Harry had told him that he hid everything; that he felt perpetually kept at arm’s length; but Louis is struggling to find any locked up piece of his soul that isn't already tainted by the lingering sting of Harry.

Louis wonders what it would feel like to be free.

***

Louis doesn't know what to say.

He knows that he's struggling - that he's been eroded further with each passing day rather than rebuilding himself, that it was only a matter of time before he finally did as both his heart and head screamed at him to do and at least tried to make something right for once.

But that’s not the reason he's here today; he could've dragged this out another week, maybe two.

And avoiding the truth has only made things worse thus far, so Louis decides that maybe he should start as he means to, hopes to, go on. There's only so much worse honesty can make this situation.

"I- Zayn locked me out," Louis admits, "Told me he wouldn't let me in 'til Liam called to say we'd sorted our 'bloody shit out', as he put it, in typical Zayn delicacy."

He desperately wants to roll his eyes at the memory of Zayn obnoxiously jangling the set of keys he _knows_ Louis never remembers to take with him, while Louis alternatively glares angrily and hurls abuse through the mail slot. But Harry still looks like he's considering a  'making this even worse' response to this news, so he doesn't dare.

Eventually, though - and it's barely a long second, really - Harry sighs heavily, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, and his harsh chuckle is far from joyous, but it seems to shatter some of the tension choking the room.

"Fucking _knew_ Li was acting weird," he says, almost to himself, but he looks up to Louis and it's like some of the ice in his eyes is beginning to melt, just from Louis' small, frank admission. Even if he doesn't seem ready to admit that yet; Louis wouldn't expect him to. "Well go on, then; you actually got something to say to me, or did Zayn write you a script, too?"

Louis has the decency to blush, but he only wrings his hands for a moment, taking a deep breath as he gathers all the words he's never known how to say, had never felt as though saying would be worth it, until he realised it was harder to keep them bottled within him.

"Do you know what I first thought when I saw you that very first time?" Louis asks.

Harry smirks a little, "That you wanted to fuck me."

And they both snort, Louis wanting to bottle this moment in case it's the last moment they have like this, always so in-sync, because, "Yeah, okay, I'll give you that. The second thing, then."

Harry shrugs, and Louis knows he has no clue where Louis' going with this. To be honest, it's all a bit of a tangle in Louis' brain too, but he's hoping it'll unravel if he can only start at the beginning and follow it, wherever that leads.

"I thought you looked vulnerable. Thought that you were long limbs and hair and sex and your bloody eyes that seem to see everything, but I thought that if I pressed that one spot then you'd shatter right in front of me."

Louis wants to smooth the frown from Harry's face; wants even more to reach out and tangle his fingers in the mess of curls, just as much as the night Louis had met him.

"I was so fucking wrong about you. You're strong, so goddamn strong, Haz. You're," Louis doesn't even know how to describe it, wants to pull lines from plays and films and every text he's ever been forced to memorise, embody, but it never quite fits Harry. "You're the opposite of me. You're genuine and open and so fucking positive that some days I can't stand it. You're that one tree that through all the storms and droughts and- god, I don't know, fires or something - you survive, you're still standing, still steadfast and there, scars and scorch marks and all. It's me that's the fragile one, pitiful and small and unable, unwilling to defend myself as soon as the wind picks up. I'm cynical and I'm sarcastic and I use loud laughter to distract everyone because I don't want anyone to realise just how unworthy I am of their attention beneath the smoke and mirrors."

"Louis-"

"I'm not strong like you. Or passionate like Zayn; I'm not open like Niall and the thought of having the faith Liam possesses in others terrifies the shit out of me. I'm just Louis, and no one ever wants to stick around for that. Not in the end. And I wanted so much for what we had in first semester to last, but I knew it wouldn't. So, when I came home for Christmas, I tried to cut you off first, before you could get to realising how little I had to offer; I thought it'd hurt less. Except you turn up on my door on New Year's _fucking_ Eve and it's like you're a bloody drug I'd been weaning off, only to be reminded of how fantastic it felt to take a hit. And like an addict, I thought that if I could only keep my family from knowing, then maybe it wouldn't be a big deal; maybe you weren't so important that I couldn't still leave any time I wanted. Maybe you weren't so important that when you left I wouldn't be torn, uprooted once more in the storm. But I'm me, and you're you, and I guess I've been kidding myself from the start."

"Louis."

He takes a deep breath and looks up from where his fingers are tangled in knots before him, following the hand which has gently laid itself over them, up the arm, shoulder, neck, until he finds warm eyes gazing back at him.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what I thought that first night when I met you?"

"That I had a fantastic arse?"

"Well that's a given, isn't it? But what else?"

And they're both tentatively smiling at Harry's barely concealed attempt to repeat Louis' words from earlier, although Louis' mystified to what Harry could possibly have to say.

"I don't know. What?"

"I thought," Louis' not entirely sure when Harry moved to stand in front of him - barely a hands-width between them, fingers brushing against shirt-clad torsos - but Harry's head is ducked down, warm breath tickling Louis' ear as he speaks, "that this boy does _not_ know how to shut his stupid mouth."

Louis jolts slightly at the increase in volume, exasperated and fond, as Harry pulls back to survey Louis' expression, who can only manage an eloquent, "Oh."

"Good thing I figured out a way to get you to just shut up for once."

And this time Louis can only mentally blink out a surprised _oh_ , because his lips are suddenly too occupied by an insistent, almost feverish press of another pair against them for him to properly verbalise it.

They're chapped, in the way Louis knows is because Harry licks them far too often, especially when he's upset, or nervous (or when he's so turned on that he starts to forget basic things like breathing and fine motor control). And it's that surge of familiarity, of finding a truth, a certainty in an ocean of change and doubt, which has Louis moaning with abandon into Harry's mouth, just as they part.

Harry pulls back, eyes searching.

"You're vital, Louis. When I was at yours, you told me I was everything. I promised myself a long time ago I'd never let anyone be that for me. I might be more willing to wear my heart on my sleeve - I never really learnt how to tuck it away - but that doesn't mean it hasn't gotten tattered and bruised sitting out in the open like that. I had always thought it was worth the risk, but I still have my own preservation measures, and I've never let someone become _everything_ to me because what if they left? I walked out the door, Louis, but you were the one that left. And I managed to survive, holding onto that piece of me that I hadn't already given up. There was enough. It's just that none of it seemed as bright without everything you added by just _being_ there.  You weren't everything, but you were vital. To me. Are vital. To Zayn and Liam and Niall. To your mum and your sisters. To me."

This time it's Louis who closes the difference between them, unable to repress the need any longer, the hunger which screamed at him to bring Harry as close as possible, and then closer still. To never let him go.

It's not as scary a thought as it had been.

"Don't leave again, Lou," Harry murmurs, just a low vibration of hot air passed from one set of lungs to another, "I'm not going anwhere, so don't run from me."

And Louis wants to chant a _nevernevernever_ into Harry's skin until it's imprinted, permanent and sacred, because Louis doesn't think he could summon the will to disentangle himself from Harry ever again.

Things aren't fixed yet, Louis isn't naïve enough to believe that. But in this moment he feels something akin to whole, as if Harry is giving back the part of him he'd stolen when he walked out on a cold January morning.

They land on Harry's bed with a dull thump, bouncing back into the worn springs of the mattress on impact, while Harry sits astride Louis' thighs. Both of their shirts have already been lost in moments Louis hadn't bothered to catalogue, too tied up with the realisation that maybe this might be something he's allowed to have again. If he doesn't fuck it up, again.

Harry kisses words into Louis' skin as he lays him out, removing his trousers and pants one layer at a time, like they have all the time in the world. Words like _beautiful_ and _charming_ and _loyal_ which Louis has heard before, although never quite as sincere as these whispers ringing loud in his ears. But there are also words which Louis has never quite been able to associate with himself, yet sound like truth when passed from Harry's tongue into the Louis' neck, stomach, hip, the delicate skin behind his knees and on the inside of his thigh.

_Brilliant._

Harry whispers it into Louis' slack mouth as Harry brushes the back of his knuckles up the inside of Louis' leg, falling to brush just barely against Louis' erect and flushed cock.

_Talented._

And the part of Louis which constantly doubts himself, which worries about what is going to happen come graduation and who the fuck makes it as an actor anyways is cowed by the simple caress of Harry's hands at his waist.

_Loving._

Harry's sigh can barely be heard over Louis' own moan as Harry ducks his head to mouth wet at the underside of Louis' cock, saliva mixing with precome which is already leaking from his slit, too hard, too aroused by the sheer experience that is _Harry_ , in the flesh, held in  Louis' hands.

_Adored_.

It's cut off by an aborted groan as Louis watches Harry rock back onto two of his own fingers without preamble, barely a generous coating of Louis' spit coating them, and _fuck_. Louis has missed so much about Harry, from his smile to the comforting weight of his limbs wrapped around Louis' in sleep, to the way he makes Louis feel, against all hope, that maybe he _matters_. But yeah, he's missed this too; seeing how hot Harry gets for him, how damn heated it makes Louis in return.

_Overwhelming._

Louis' hesitant to allow this one, or at least to let Harry use it as a qualifier solely for Louis, because Louis' pretty fucking overwhelmed by Harry right now too; seeing him sink slowly down onto Louis' cock after getting to watch Harry lick a trail from the crown all the way to behind his balls, firm hand sliding a condom down to follow the drag of Harry's tongue. Louis reaches up to pull a handful of curls away from where they're obscuring his view of Harry's face, raised above him and still, holding both of them in a moment of perpetual _something_. Louis' torn between wanting Harry to just bloody _move_ already, because he's balls deep and aching for everything he's missed, and wishing they could stay right here forever, where everything feels simple and they're at the very edge, the rush before the fall (and Louis very determinedly doesn't think about the part where he fell so very long ago).

_Imperfect._

Harry's moving now, rocking motions which don't really act to bring either of them off, but keep the heat building low in Louis' belly, increments of movement pushing him tight inside Harry. And when he says it, the word sounds more like the most reverent of compliments, rather than a descriptor Louis has spent half his life trying to keep people from discovering.

_Perfect._

And when Harry says _this_ , Louis wants to believe him; that maybe, to Harry at least, he's imperfectly perfect, or perfectly imperfect, or maybe the words themselves are starting to make little sense in Louis' sex-blurred mind. But it's hard to disagree with the idea - when Harry is hunched over him, palms pressed to Louis' chest as he bounces himself feverishly now, dick slapping with abandon from Louis' stomach to smear slick on his own, voice catching breathlessly and sweat shining on his forehead - it's hard not to believe that Harry has some kind of undeserved faith in Louis, in the idea that he's something worth having.

_Mine_.

It's a simple, four lettered word. And it catches in Louis' heart and tugs him over the edge without warning, choking out a strangled _Harry_ as he comes, grip tightening on both Harry's hair and hip, his own bucking up in irregular pulses as his orgasm tears through him. He means to reach for Harry's neglected cock, to offer him the same relief which has Louis thinking this might genuinely work out okay, for the first time. But before he can do so, Harry's clenching hard around Louis' weakly twitching dick - just beginning to reach the point bordering on over-sensitive pain rather than pleasure - and he streaks white over Louis' torso, looking at Louis with wide, almost shocked eyes as he comes completely untouched between them. Louis wraps a hand around Harry, as the last drops pool in Louis' belly button, and Harry keens with his whole body, as though the skin-on-skin contact after all of this is too much.

Louis carefully lifts Harry off of him so that they roll onto their sides, and strokes delicately at Harry's flushed cheekbones as he draws him in for a slow, sweet kiss.

Everything Harry has said to him is still rocketing around in his mind, craving attention and probably a proper freak-out, knowing Louis, but it's Harry's final word which is sitting right there in the forefront. _Mine_.

Louis thinks he likes the way it sounds, wants to hear it again and again, like a Top 40 record played on repeat for weeks and months on end, until you know it upside down and inside out and, even years later, you can hear the start of the song and instantly remember the tune; memories and emotions flooding back with the lyrics.

_Mine_.

It makes Louis think of other four letter words. And they're on the tip of his tongue as he lets Harry lick any trace of loneliness from his mouth, replacing it with the heady, all-encompassing taste of _HarryHarryHarry_. He doesn't speak them aloud, because it's not the right time; everything is still fragile and there are more pressing words which need to be said, which Louis doesn't want to avoid this time.

And he doesn't want these words to come at the wrong time, because these are the big ones. The ones he already knows can be as damaging as they are the foundation for everything else, if said at the wrong moment, if hurled in anger or distress.

Louis will give anything not to fuck this up the second time around.

So he doesn't say his own words yet, as Harry melds into Louis' side, finding the places they fit, not a gap between them, in the way no one else ever has.

But soon.

***

It would be easy, in the afterglow, to sweep everything under the carpet, out of side out of mind. It's tempting, when Harry's arm is wrapped tight, safe, around Louis, snuffling softly in sleep.

But he wants that arm to stay there for the foreseeable future. Louis can admit that now.

So, when Harry wakes, kissing Louis sleepily, muffled and just a little sleep sour from his nap, they talk.

Louis has already told Harry the most of it, the important bits - or at least in his mind - but he's cautious now, of making Harry feel as though he's out of the loop. It's difficult, but in stops and starts, largely while Louis twists Harry's fingers, so much larger than his own (and Louis thinks that maybe that means that he can _handle this, Louis_ , and not drop these pieces of him to shatter on the floor), Louis talks to Harry.

About growing up in his house of girls, without his father but still with a Dad, because sometimes blood is thinner than water. Except sometimes they both turn out to be no more than running liquids, in the end - some just take longer to run away than others. How he's always been supported, whether it be his fondness for football, or abhorrence of rugby; his gifts for drama, or his more than lacking ineptitude at maths; when he brought home his first girlfriend, and when he sat on his mum's bed and suggested maybe it's more boys who win his heart. And yet that support has never been enough that Louis found it _easy_ to speak about what he was going through. He'd always felt as though it was better to toughen up and carry on, and when he could drown himself in theatrics and characters, that was fine. It was fine, and when things got _proper_ hard, when he started to lose what faith he'd been brought up to believe in the world as, when it counts, ultimately _good_ , it was almost natural to shroud himself further and more completely in those masks.

About how Harry made him want to unwrap himself a little. How Harry is liquid too, slowly seeping and permeating through all the tiny cracks in Louis' armour until he flooded Louis' defences. How Louis wants to believe that he’s different, but that he's still terrified that one day he'll wake up and Harry will have flowed back out the same imperfections ( _imperfect_ , Harry's voice echoes in Louis mind, all types of fond), before Louis can repair them.

He tells him almost all there possibly is, more than he's ever told anyone, even Zayn, who has wormed and manipulated almost everything out of him over the years.

And Harry lets him. Tells Louis stories he hasn't heard before; about how he'd blamed himself for his step-dad leaving only months after he'd come out at age sixteen, and only found out later about the affair, ugly and hidden and everything Harry couldn't understand. How he didn't know how to hide his emotions, and how Liam probably dealt with more than his fair share of that, because it was him that Harry had always run to and ranted and sobbed and waxed poetic about whatever had happened that week.

Harry chuckled a little, telling Louis about how he'd once imagined himself a little in love with Liam, because who wouldn't be (Louis chuckled too, even as a part of his brain was planning on giving Liam a swift whack in the balls in the near future, just on principle), yet had almost as soon realised just how weird that notion was. How he'd felt more alone than ever once Liam left for university and tried to fill that gap with whatever - whoever - he could lay his hands on.

Harry tells Louis that he's been bruised and bent and little scars may mar the surface of his heart, but he doesn't regret it; that sometimes he might've been safer hiding behind Louis' shields but it's no way to live.

He doesn't take back anything he's done or said.

( _I love you_ rings in both their minds and neither say a word about it)

Louis doesn't necessarily agree with everything Harry believes, and he knows Harry still doesn't completely understand why Louis acts the way he does. But that's nothing new for them. Louis also doesn't agree that body wash can be used as an acceptable alternative to shampoo in an emergency, and he knows that Harry has never understood his penchant for trashy reality television (and Harry's face is perpetually bemused when Louis attempts to explain why _Ice Loves Coco_ of all thingsis acceptable but _Living with Jonas_ most certainly isn't). Differences are part of what makes them attracted to each other. Which has made Louis-

He doesn't say the one thing because _not yet_.

_Soon_.

***

When it's coming on to dinner time, Harry throws the blankets off of his side of the bed, disentangling himself from Louis and climbing out of bed without a word.

There's still a small part of Louis that freezes, worried that Harry's leaving; because there's honesty and then there's too much to stay for.

But Harry's turning to him from by his desk, naked as the day he was born - although far more obscene – and, "It's okay, Lou; I just remembered something."

Harry rummages around in the top drawer of his desk, pulling out unopened packs of post-its from a more optimistic start to the semester, and stray guitar picks before finally pulling out a small drawstring bag, making a quiet sound of triumph as he leaps back onto the bed, satisfied smirk lighting up his face.

"You know, I actually did have a proper present for your birthday and Christmas and all that."

Louis remembers hearing Harry's voice on the phone, want and amusement giving way to desire flooding every syllable; he remembers getting a message on his phone with a photo of red cheeks, and tangled hair, all wrapped up with a green bow and a smile that belongs to Louis. "You really didn't have to."

( _And not after everything_.)

"I wanted to," Harry tells him firmly, "And I still want you to have it."

Louis doesn't know how to say no to that (to Harry), so he accepts the small bag, hesitating a moment before he pulls at the string to tug it open, ignoring Harry as he rambles a background rumble of _it's not much...saw it in a market...pretty sure the old lady thought I was bringing it home to my girlfriend, saying 'she'll want a pretty box, or maybe some ribbon, just a quid more?' and I told her 'it's for my Louis, and he'd only complain that he doesn't have the nails to unknot the ribbon and be pissed off that he has to find the scissors to open it up'_.

When he tips the bag upside down, a small, round, silver pendant tumbles into Louis' hand. It's worn, old-fashioned - or at least gives a good impression of it - and on closer examination appears to be a locket. Before he pries the clasp open, he flips it over in his palm, feeling Harry's eyes on him, having gone silent once more. In plain print, the word _home_ is stamped into the silver, capital letters, solid and sure. Louis runs his thumb over it, the metal warming quickly under his touch.

He can see Harry's fingers twitching out of the corner of his eyes, clearly waiting for Louis to open the locket and Louis kind of wants to roll his eyes, expecting some corny photo of the two of them cut haphazardly and forced into the gap.

What he's not expecting is this.

Where the outside is bare and deceptively plain, aged and a little tired, yet looking as though it might last forever, the inside is shining, intricately wrought silver, metal twisted to depict a compass. It's far from functional, from the looks of it, but the needle points permanently in a direction which, once the chain is hung, Louis imagines will be pointing directly at the wearer’s heart.

_Very soon._

Louis catches Harry's lips in a messy kiss, fingers fumbling on the clasp of the chain at the same time.

_So soon._

"Harry, I-"

" _Right I'm fairly sure you haven't killed each other, but it's been almost five hours and we haven't heard anything in a while so-"_ the door crashes open, none too quietly, Zayn stepping into the room with hand over his face (although his fingers are spread wide), while Liam leans in the doorway, "you best cover any bits you don't want me to see, not that I haven't seen either of your junk before if we're being honest-"

" _Zayn_ ," Liam and Louis say simultaneously, with the same exasperated tone, as Harry laughs into Louis' shoulder.

Zayn, to his credit, just grins, winking back at Liam.

"Well you two are looking pretty cosy, aren't you? Told you this would work, babe," and Liam sighs, at all of them probably, but can't keep the smile off his face.

"Twat, you locked me out of the goddamn flat; I'm going to put bleach in your conditioner, Zayn Malik, don't think I won't," Louis threatens as menacingly as he can with a Harry-sized leech sucking open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, making Louis' eyelids flutter not-so-intimidatingly.

"Come on, Zayn, leave them be; the movie’s all set up and I've got some marshmallows to mix through the popcorn."

Louis likes Liam. Louis forgives Liam for his part in this plot.

"Yeah, bugger off, then," Louis is telling them, just as he hears the front door open.

"Did it work, then?" Niall's voice bounces down the hall, before his face appears over Liam's shoulder. "'Bout time, guys. Place was getting right depressing."

"Oi, just because you guys have all managed to get your shit sorted for all of five minutes before we did, now that you two are shagging with a purpose and Niall's finally decided to stake some claim on that girl from Betty's."

"It's like they think they're relationship experts or summat now," Harry agrees with him, nodding sagely, "As if it wasn't only a few weeks ago that Liam came in here and-"

"C'mon, Ni; Zayn downloaded the new Die Hard and we've got it hooked up to the telly," Liam tugs on both Zayn and Niall's arms, "We bought you your own bag of crisps."

"Always my fave, Li," Niall is easily led off, although Zayn looks as though he wouldn't mind hearing the rest of the story.

They pull the door shut behind them but Harry yells out in the last second before it clicks into the frame.

"Best turn the volume up a bit, yeah?"

And it's Niall's groan echoing through the wall that has them in hysterics, accompanied by the muffled, "Fuck's sake, I'm gonna have to deal with that through my bloody wall again, aren't I? You sure you don't wanna swap flats, Zayn?"

Louis feels bad for Niall, he really does, but it's hard to care when Harry's bent over him, pushing Louis into the pillows and mussed blankets, and his pendant is a solid weight on his chest, reminding him where his heart is.

Where home is.

***

"'Bye."

Pause.

"'Bye."

Louis stops in the hall outside the flat, hand hovering over the door handle as he listens to the murmured conversation carrying on through the thin wood.

"'Bye."

A longer pause this time. Louis considers going and getting a takeaway and coming back in half an hour.

"Hey- no- _Zayn_ ; I really have to go, okay?"

Louis could puke (although it might be a little hypocritical when his own lips still feel puffy from the twenty minutes it had taken him to leave Harry's). Time for an intervention.

"Sorry, Liam," Louis checks the clock on his phone as he obnoxiously shoulders his way in between Zayn and Liam, "but five 'til seven on Wednesdays is strictly Louis-Zayn time. Tradition of the ages."

"We have literally never done that," Zayn snorts as Louis throws an arm around his shoulder.

"Passed down through generations," Louis slaps a hand to Zayn's chest to stifle any complaints, " _Generations_ , Liam."

"Louis."

"Zayn, it's fine," Liam assures him, "Best get home; Niall's doing me one of his 'official' tutorials and if I'm not there by half-past then I have to give him back his fines from the swear jar."

"Oi, hear that, Zayn? And that's our post-exam piss-up fund - you can't be messing with the donations of our biggest benefactor, the honourable Duke Horan now, can you?"

"God you talk some shit, Lou," but Liam's laughing and Zayn's smirking and shaking his head and pulling Louis into a headlock so that he's out of the way for Zayn to reach across to Liam for one final kiss goodbye.

"I'm protesting this treatment," Louis comments to no one in particular, staring down at two pairs of shoes and Zayn's bare feet.

"Duly noted," comes the response from somewhere above him, followed by a, "'Bye, babe. Talk to you later, yeah? And I'll see you Friday night after your exam. You'll smash it."

Louis swears he can hear Liam's eyes crinkling, regardless of his ability to see it.

"Love you; see ya, Louis."

"Bye, Li!" Louis offers cheerily, attempting to wave in the vague direction of Liam's retreating form, scrambling when Zayn abruptly drops him as the door shuts and pads off to the kitchen.

"Tosser."

"Takes one to know one," Zayn responds sagely as he pulls down one of the few actual glasses they own from the shelf (they own almost exclusively an excess of mismatched mugs and plastic wine glasses).

"Prick."

"Mhmm."

Zayn is possibly just far too used to Louis at this point, but he's acting particularly saccharine even for him.

"Hey, Zayn?"

"Mm."

"Did you get the mail I tossed on your bed this morning on my way out?"

"Uh-huh."

"The one with the fairly official looking logo on it?"

"Guess so."

"That said 'Camberwell College of Arts' on it?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Honestly, it doesn't take that long to pour a glass of water, but Zayn's still facing the sink, away from Louis.

"Zayn."

"Louis."

"Did you get into the Fine Arts course at Camberwell?"

A beat.

"Maybe."

Zayn _had_ to have been expecting it, but he still lets out a surprised _oof_ when Louis throws himself at him, throwing arms around Zayn's neck, legs wrapped around his waist from behind and gripping tight enough that a crowbar couldn't pry them apart.

And Zayn's laughing now and spinning them unevenly around the kitchen as Louis whoops and smacks loud kisses all over the parts of Zayn's head he can reach.

"You _shit_ , I can't believe you didn't let me know sooner and-" Louis whacks Zayn swiftly across the shoulder and scrabbles to be let down as he realises something, "you bloody told Liam before you told me, didn't you?"

Zayn has the decency to at least look sheepish, but it's hard to be cross with him when Zayn's face is lit up like Christmas has been announced as a year-long event.

"Well, as long as you still dedicate me as the reason for your success as a world-renowned artist, what with my gentle coaxing" - _nagging_ , Zayn coughs indiscreetly - "I _suppose_ I'll let it slide. But fuck, Zayn, that's incredible," Louis tells him seriously, because it is.

Zayn ducks his head, never really able to handle other people praising his talent, but he sounds quietly proud when he says, "They said they like the honesty of my drawings."

"Well, I dunno about that, mate. You’re the only reason I ever passed that art history paper in first year, and that’s a pretty accurate summary of my total art knowledge; but I know that what you do is brilliant. And if that's what they call ‘honest’ over there, then I suppose that's what it is."

Louis hopes Zayn knows to see how sincere he is beneath the jokes, because he truly doesn't know a thing about art - the fact the van Gogh is actually pronounced more like you're about to spit at someone is about all he can remember from AHIS114 - but there's something in Zayn's art (maybe it's the striking colour, or the lines which cross the page with a determination Zayn often hides in his everyday life) which has always made Louis stop and stare for a minute, not even trying to understand it, just to embrace the emotions which tend to twist in Louis' gut at witnessing it.

He pulls Zayn into a proper hug this time, holding him tight and feeling Zayn squeeze him hard when Louis mutters a, "Proud of you, Zayn," into his neck.

"Couldn't 've done it without you, Lou," Zayn whispers back, poking him lightly in the side.

"Sure you could've," Louis insists, ruffling Zayn's unstyled hair in retaliation as he pulls back.

"Yeah, you're right," Zayn shrugs, "you probably just held me back."

"Oi! And here I was thinking you deserve a shout of takeaway for being all artsy and amazing, but I reckon that about ruins that train of thought."

"Ooh go on, Lou, you know I'm messing with you; I could really go a curry," Zayn looks up at him through eyelashes that are probably considered illegal in some countries, "Pleeeease."

Louis sighs heavily. "God you've got a good flatmate, you do. Don't know _what_ you think you're going to do without me next year."

"Probably end up eating paint and dying a tragic death at age twenty-two of lead poisoning."

"I promise I'll cry at your funeral."

"Better."

***

Harry turns up about ten minutes after Louis has given up on any hope of finishing his chicken tikka, only knocking cursorily on the door as he strides in, guitar slung over his back, nodding a hello.

(yes, Louis realises he spent twenty minutes saying goodbye to Harry when he was planning on seeing him three hours later; what of it)

Zayn grunts a hello at Harry, more focused on the _Ninja Warrior_ on the telly, but double takes a second later, narrowing his eyes at Louis.

"Don't you have an exam tomorrow?"

"Yeah?"

"And you've got Harry over."

"He's helping me run lines for my performance piece; it's a practical exam, Zayn."

He can feel the skepticism radiating from Zayn, but he knows better than to try and convince Louis otherwise, so he merely rolls his eyes and turns back to the TV in time to see some guy deck himself when he misjudges a leap.

"Mhmm; keep it to a dull roar please."

"Seems like _someone_ doubts my work ethic; c'mon Haz, let's go." He may or may not flounce off to his room, dragging Harry behind him, just for the dramatics of it. He's ninety percent sure that Zayn doesn't see a second of it.

He shuts the door softly behind them, deciding against a melodramatic slam at the last moment. He wanders over to where Harry has carefully rested his guitar against Louis' wardrobe and pushes himself up on tip-toe, hands wrapped around Harry's wrists, to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"Hi."

"Hi," Harry returns, sunrise smile lighting the room, barely containing it enough to duck his head and initiate a second kiss, deeper than the first.

They've been working things out for a few weeks now. It was almost deceptively easy to fall back into each other, but Louis' not about to take it for granted. So he appreciates the warm, soft heat of Harry's lips, of his tongue tangling with his. But he still pulls away after not nearly long enough.

Harry whines, pouting in a way that is truly unfair but, "I really ought to practice, Haz; final exams of my university career and all that."

"Fiiine," Harry sighs, but he's smiling and tugging the chair from Louis' desk – wheeling it out and around so he can prop his arms on the backrest – so he presumes he’s forgiven. "Wow me then, Tomlinson."

The first time he runs through the monologue, it takes a moment for Louis to not be distracted by the intensity of Harry's gaze, drinking up every syllable and gesture (and Louis' been in the spotlight since he was eight and got cast as Peter in his primary school's performance of _Peter Pan_ , but never has he felt so on display, as exposed as in his poorly lit bedroom, encompassing the borderline personality of Chekhov's Trigorin). He soon gets lost in the story though, in Trigorin's obsession, ticking through every twitch of his hands, itching for a pen which will never be enough, yet still conveying the illusion of a just-there facade, of normality, of "clever and charming, clever and charming, nothing more."

Harry claps after the third repeat, and it might be the cheesiest thing ever - because that's not something you _do_ at a time like this, not for Louis anyway - but Louis blushes despite himself.

"It'll do, then, you think?"

Harry huffs out a laugh; "Yeah, Lou; it'll do."

"Good. Once more for luck, then."

The next time he finishes, Harry's scooting himself ridiculously across the floor space and reaching up to pull Louis' face down to his, lips tangling swift and filthy.

"' _Here lies Trigorin. He was a charming writer, but not so good as Turgenev_ '," Harry recites, repeating the end of Louis' monologue. "Why'd you pick this piece?"

Louis shrugs. "Because Chekhov is underutilised and Trigorin is somehow relatable even in his extremes, you know? Everyone can appreciate a sense of obsession, even when it's only one part of a relatively well-rounded individual."

"Yeah, okay...but you don't actually believe it, do you, Lou?"

Louis could pretend he doesn't know what Harry means, but he once read something someone once said; about how our favourite quotes possibly say more about _ourselves_ than what it does about those it refers to. And he's never been able to lie convincingly to Harry.

"Maybe not as much as I did; thanks to you."

He didn't anticipate Harry leaving his side quite so abruptly as he does; but it's only a moment, propelling himself over to where he'd stashed his guitar, and then another - for him to stand up, spin the chair one-eighty and sit back, right side round this time - before he's back in front of Louis, nudging at him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"My turn."

"Your exams don't start until next week."

"And? Are they not as important as your exams?"

"Of course they are, babe," Louis says complacently, smirk stretching uncontrollably over his face.

"Screw you," Harry laughs, fingers absent-mindedly plucking at strings, tightening and tuning as he goes, natural as breathing.

"Naww, don't be like that, Harold," Louis prods at Harry's shin with his toe, "What's this one for again?"

"Music Performance 212, original piece."

"Well, by all means, take it away."

Louis has heard Harry play before, on occasion. It's usually just screwing around, something to keep his hands and mind occupied; messing about with Niall, or passing time. He knows that Harry keeps a notebook with scrawled words and ideas, but he's never read any of it. It's one of the few areas of Harry's life that he hasn't volunteered, and Louis' never been quite brave enough to ask. Harry may wear his heart on his sleeve, but Louis thinks it's his soul in that dog-eared notebook.

The song is unrushed, notes strung together with purpose, but meandering in a way that Louis doesn't really mind where it's taking him. He closes his eyes, flopping back on the bed to let it wash over him.

When Harry's voice comes in, it's a gravelly croon, something not entirely unlike an acoustic-indie-rock ballad (Louis' not even sure if that makes sense, but it's the best his brain can come up with). The lyrics are nothing earth shattering, but they're simple in their truth.

He can't help peeking every now and again; short glances at the way Harry sits hunched over his guitar - Louis could probably stare as long as he liked if he dared; Harry sings with his eyes closed, beautiful and cliché as ever.

_"And I see you there_

_from across the room;_

_Wanna learn your everything_

_But you leave too soon."_

Harry does catch his eyes near the end, and Louis wants so many things, all at once, that they all catch in his throat.

" _And I will fight 'til the very end for you,_

_But you have to believe, you must know it's true._

_I am yours._

_Let me fall for you._ "

The song peters out until Louis barely notices the music's stopped, and suddenly clapping doesn't seem so cheesy anymore.

He gasps out something like, "Well it's not exactly Katy _Perry_ ," but the joke is kind of lost when he's scrambling for Harry, dragging the chair closer, pulling Harry off and over Louis to land on the bed next to him; ready and in a position for Louis to climb astride him.

It slips out in the space behind Harry's ear, warm and dark and familiar like an old woollen jumper; somewhere safe and non-judging.

"I love you."

Harry's intake of breath is sharp in the following silence, and his hands find Louis' face, pulling him under Harry's unrelenting stare, searching and just a little bit awestruck. Louis thinks he can relate.

"I love you, too."

And then they're not talking anymore, mouths far too preoccupied with tracing paths over skin they've mapped countless times before. Hands wandering down slopes and curving around muscles, stripping too many layers until they're skin to skin.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles into Louis' collarbone.

" _Fuck_ ," Louis gasps when words turn into a bitten reminder, "Why?"

Harry only glances up at Louis briefly, but Louis knows he's genuinely concerned about his response when he says, "That this isn't the first time you heard it."

And Harry ducks back down immediately to continue his maddening ministrations, but Louis has enough self-control to bring Harry up by the chin to look him in the eye, challenging.

"When have I ever heard it before?"

Because neither of them has forgotten words spoken in anger, and Louis doesn't think they should - he believes they will keep them honest if ever they fall into old habits. But they've both forgiven and, when they're here in a moment like _this_ , Louis can't help but feel like this really was the first time. At least, in all the ways that matter.

"Still love you?"

"Still love you."

***

"To us," Louis cheers, holding his shot as high as he dares, "and to us finally finishing these goddamn degrees!"

" _To us!_ " Niall, Liam and Zayn chorus enthusiastically, downing the truly atrocious vodka Louis had bought for Zayn in first year and which neither had ever had the stomach to actually finish - ending where they began and all that.

"And to Harry too, marvellous boy that he is," Louis' not too sure anyone else is paying attention - what with Niall too busy laughing at Liam choking on the paint stripper vodka and Zayn seemingly torn between checking on the health of his boyfriend and joining Niall; bent double and arms resting on the kitchen counter to keep himself upright. But Harry has returned from where he'd been getting changed in his room and has loped up behind Louis to sling his arms around his shoulders and tuck his head into Louis' neck, thumb stroking with familiarity over the spot where the hidden compass sits tucked beneath Louis' shirt.

Louis hands him a shot glass and watches Harry throw it back - he's still almost as fascinated now by the long column of Harry's throat as he was all those months ago when he shoved that near-empty bottle of rum into Harry’s hand.

They're getting ready to head out for what they ("Just you, Louis," Zayn says) are ("Melodramatically," Harry pipes up) referring to as their ‘last hurrah’.

("Not really though, right?" Liam checks.

"'Course not," Niall scoffs.

"If it actually is, I shall eat my own hat and send you all copies of the video evidence," Louis promises.

"Melodramatic," comes the chorus line.)

Basically, they're drinking, heading over to Betty's, drinking some more, waiting for Callie to get off her shift, meeting Ed at the new club he's apparently DJ-ing at (who knew?), possibly having a final couple of drinks depending on their level of intoxication and what's left of their cash, and then stumbling home again for the last time in a while. Before things change again.

Exams are over. And, for most of them, it's been the last of their degrees'.

Not so much, as it turns out, their last exams _ever_.

Harry, of course, still has another year, possibly more depending on whether he makes up his mind on making psychology a second major (Louis' letting him make up his own mind, but he can't see him going through with it - Harry belongs in the music industry - with his talent and heart - in some capacity or another). So he's not going anywhere particularly fast.

And Liam will be the one definite who _won't_ be coming back, as little as he may believe it. He's worked his arse off the past month (Louis has a very intricate and sensitive test to measure this called the 'How-Pissed-Is-Zayn-Because-He's-Not-Getting-Laid Phenomenon'), racking up some serious study hours with Niall, who has acted as both tutor and distraction, preventing Liam from getting too overwhelmed by his own thoughts. He's already been interviewed by a couple of firms, and Louis' not sure anyone could actually say no to Liam after meeting him in person.

Hell, considering Niall is actually spending time studying as well for once, he's likely to come out top of his class come graduation. Which in itself is ironic (maybe...Louis forgets the difference between irony and plain ridiculous) since Niall never intends to use his qualification. The week after Harry and Louis had patched things up, Niall had come home from work with a grin which had threatened to split his face clean in half. He'd announced that the zoo had agreed to give him a _proper_ internship starting this summer, providing he can cross-credit some of his science papers and put them towards a zoology qualification. With Niall's grades - and some fairly elaborate timetable strategy - he figures he can graduate a second time in only a year and a half, two at most, depending on the hours he's given at the zoo. It’s not as though Niall's ever been particularly dejected as far as uni is concerned, but now you can practically feel the buzz radiating from him when he talks about what’s to come.

Zayn's almost as bad, but in a significantly less manic, more understated way. Camberwell is so much more than a pipe dream now, and Louis' pretty sure Zayn's still in shock about it, but his entire being just seems to exude _happy_ now. Because he has a future doing the thing he loves most. And because he has a Liam. Louis, even in the deepest funk over Harry, could still see the change in Zayn when he and Liam got together properly; could appreciate the quiet glow that Louis can't ever remember being there before.

Louis is going to miss Zayn. Big time. He's comfortable enough in his dependence on his friend to admit that. Camberwell is half a city away. But, in London, that's still only a train ride. Louis figures he can save what money he has to spend on train fare by guilting Liam into feeding him scraps (or more preferably, bacon butties and cake) whenever he makes the trip. He might have to hold off a couple weeks before the first visit though; Louis doesn't _really_ need to imagine what they'll be like when they're...wearing their new place in.

Granted, Harry and Louis will likely be doing the same thing if they manage to ignore Niall's protests (which have to be at least as audible as Harry and Louis themselves, so Louis' convinced it's all par for the course). Harry and Niall's flat really is pretty decent, so Louis is graciously filling the gap Liam will be leaving next year (even if Liam's room is likely to become no more than a larger-than-normal wardrobe, unless Harry gets his way and they turn it into a music room), meaning it can continue to be a scruffy, student flat.

Because _Louis_ , after much humming and hah-ing ("I do not _whine_ , Harry"), has finally decided to return to university next year. He's still graduating in a few weeks’ time - Louis already knows there's going to be an embarrassing set of cheers from the six seats set aside for his guests; his mum and sisters are all making the trip down for it, and Harry wouldn't miss a chance to embarrass Louis for the world. But he's just enrolled to do a one-year teaching diploma come September. It's not a be-all, end-all type affair, but it's a route which Louis can picture himself in at some stage. It gives him a year in London where he can audition for the type of parts, and life, that he's always hoped for, and still have some sort of security in case it backfires. And if it means a reason to stay in the same city as Harry for at least a year, then who is Louis to complain?

So. Tonight they celebrate.

After this, things are going to change. It's a simple fact.

But probably not as much as they thought - Louis honestly can't imagine the five of them not being overly entangled in each other's lives for, at the _very_ _least_ , the foreseeable future.

And no matter what does happen, tonight Louis knows he's going to enjoy himself.

And he knows that, at the _end_ of tonight, he'll be going home with Harry.

Just another night, with the boy with the green eyes.

***

_fin._

_***_

**Author's Note:**

> WELP. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE END. hope it all turned out the way you wanted to.
> 
> thank you everyone who's read this series - it's taken something close to 6 months since i first wrote 'the boy with the green eyes', so thanks for sticking through my irregular posting.
> 
> there /is/ the possibility for a couple of timestamps to go up at some stage (but they will be written god knows when so hm) - there are a couple of scenes which i have in mind, but feel free to let me know moments in particular you would like to see (or have questions about - my headcanon for this verse is near-infinite, and a lot of plot didn't make it into the final cut so)
> 
> love you all
> 
> <3


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